


flight

by kinpika



Series: signed, sealed, delivered [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery
Genre: F/M, Quidditch, Seventh year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-17 00:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: “Looking good, Weasley.”“You too, Rhodes.”





	flight

Natasha had to admit, it was the first time in a long time she’d actually felt remotely nervous.

Still brisk for mid-April. Slightest amount of wind, whipping around their ankles as they walked through the change rooms. Only so much of a pep talk she could give the team, after all, as she could see the looks in their eyes — they wanted this, just as much as she did. Burning Slytherin pride, and other nonsense. 

It was the long awaited grudge match, in the grand scheme of things, after all. Whilst Gryffindor had managed to knock Slytherin sideways back in her second year, Natasha had watched as they had failed to make it even close to the final since then. Until now. 

In spite of all the odds, Gryffindor had climbed to second, barely squeezing through for the final. Of course, Natasha also knew the flip side of finally getting the grudge match they all wanted: that losing this round to the quietly favoured underdogs, wouldn’t go unremembered for a long, _long_ time.

Grip on her broom tightening, Natasha gets a two second warning, before the door to the change room opened. Before the team, Snape stood, hands carefully folded behind his back, sharp eye passing over them all. Thankfully, Natasha seemed to escape his ire, as he settled for holding his gaze on Flint. Even Higgs, beside her, deflated with relief. She already knew how much pressure their seeker was under, and this might’ve been that one shining moment of Snape’s apparent compassion showing by ignoring him.

Flint, whilst only having played a few games during the season due to the absolute lack of academic progress, was given leave for this. No matter how many times other members of their team had beaten it into his head, that they had other chasers on the sideline _just in case,_ he still stalked around with an air of indifference. Except now. Now Snape stared down at him.

“Careful, Flint. With how today may go, you might end up bearing the weight of this game into your next year.”

That gets him to stop strutting, but Natasha can’t help feel some sort of subtext in there. Even against her better judgement, Flint’s name had been put forward by most of the other members for the captaincy next year. But, _but_ , she couldn’t deny quite the stab towards what she’d already been worrying about.

Fine. Not like a little pressure wasn’t productive anyway. Bletchley and Pucey take that as cue to stand, and lead them out. Behind, Higgs closely follows, with Selwyn giving Natasha only a curious backwards glance. Nodding at her cousin, Natasha waits until Szohr joins him, as do several of their reserves (Baldwin, Caterford and Lagerfell in particular dragging their feet). Only Snape and herself were left after a few more moments. Not sure where to look, Natasha finally meets her professor’s eye.

“We’ll win.” Thankfully, her voice didn’t shake, even if the words seemed louder in her ears than they should’ve. “I know we will.”

Snape let the words fade, before moving to clasp his hands before him. “Don’t let your ridiculous romance get in the way of this game, Rhodes. I shouldn’t have to tell you twice.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, professor.” Natasha tries not to seethe at such a comment, but with one last withering gaze, Snape sweeps out of the room. 

Far too much riding on this game for her to let something like a crush get in her way. Marching forward, Natasha joins the rest of her team, many of them already several feet in the air. Upon her arrival, the rest of the team flies off, one behind the other, in a lap around the pitch. In the centre, Madam Hooch stood, the all too familiar crate by her feet. 

And, beside her, stood the Gryffindor captain. 

Charlie was always remarkably unflappable when it came to Quidditch, and today he was nothing else. Loosely holding his broom, free hand on his hip. Talking with Hooch about something or other, falling silent only upon Natasha’s arrival. Natasha spares him a quick look, nothing more, nothing less, as Hooch noticed her too.

“Good, we’re all here then.”

No hesitation in how Hooch blows into her whistle, leaving Natasha to cringe at how loud it was this close. No time given to linger, either, as the crate was kicked open, bludgers and snitch immediately flying off. With the quaffle under one arm, does Hooch finally address them both.

“Captains, shake hands.”

As much as Rowan may have romanticised the moment later, there was no such thing as time slowing down. No peering deeply into each other’s eyes. Natasha was here to _win_ , just as she was sure Charlie was too. If anything, their handshake only gave her a reason to be in his orbit for the first time in weeks, since Gryffindor had made the finals. Firm, and perhaps there was a little bit of lingering in how their fingers separated. But she speaks, confidently, easily.

“Looking good, Weasley.”

“You too, Rhodes.” 

He grins, and this smile was always unlike the others. So sure of himself. _This_ particular Charlie always did things to her, making her all fluttery and weak kneed, and he knew. But not today. Natasha winks back, sets one foot in the stirrup of her broom, and lets herself rise slowly, deliberately. Watching him the entire time.

Charlie throws a leg over his broom, with Hooch following moments after. Sounds from the stands drowned out, settling into a comfortable white noise behind her. Eyes only on the quaffle, as Hooch raises it high into the air. Nothing to say to her team, they knew what to do. Eyes on the prize, Rhodes, she tells herself. 

 


End file.
